


Blood and Bone: The Axetale Drabbles

by thebananahasspoken



Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: Axetale, Backstory, Blood, Body Horror, Cannibalism, Character Death, Corruption, Disembowelment, Dismemberment, Drabbles, Echoflowers, F/F, F/M, Family, Father and daughter, Gore, Gross, Happy Birthday Aliza, Horror, Insanity, M/M, Madness, Mention of abuse, Murder, Mutation, Parasites, Sadness, Souls, The Glitch - Freeform, The Palace, The Void, Vomit, Waterfall, ghost - Freeform, prompts, statue, the fiend with a thousand eyes, the first human - Freeform, the mountain, trap, voices
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-02
Updated: 2020-08-11
Packaged: 2020-11-10 19:27:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 18
Words: 18,322
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20857010
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thebananahasspoken/pseuds/thebananahasspoken
Summary: A gathering of Axetale inspired drabbles. Many contain gruesome and explicit descriptions; enter at your own risk.





	1. Forbidden Knowledge

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Fracture](https://archiveofourown.org/works/13147872) by [thebananahasspoken](https://archiveofourown.org/users/thebananahasspoken/pseuds/thebananahasspoken). 
**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Check out the Axetale blog on Tumblr for more content!
> 
> https://ataleofaxes.tumblr.com/

* * *

The Journal

* * *

“Wooby… Wooby, we can’ go in thew! Gwamma wiw be mad! Come back!”

The creak of a floorboard under careless foot, ancient and unkempt. The rattle of shutters in a galing wind, the whistle of a coming storm through a cracked window pane. The deathly stillness of dust, boxes and crates filled with the unknown, shadowy silhouettes of either furniture or monsters in the darkest corners… a flash of brightest red, blood on snow on the chillest winter’s morn.

And the shuddering, quick breaths of a frightened child, eyes wide in the unknowing and uncaring fall of night.

The child lingering in the dim doorway, peeking through a crack in the door, couldn’t have been more than five years of age, though it was difficult to say, as she looked smaller and more frail than any child her age should be; her dark, choppy hair was held back in a messy, dirty ponytail that looked as though it had never seen a brush, her clothes ratty, old, too large, and far too threadbare for the frost nipping at the single, moonlit window high above the maze of odds and ends filling the attic space.

Everything about the girl was thin and weak, but for her almost too large, widened eyes. Her irises held a strangeness to them, catching the moon’s light in a shade that looked almost golden, and sparked with odd magic; as she looked about the boxes and dusty coverlets with clear anxiety, clutching at the doorknob under hand, the darkness seemed to be no burden to her, and despite the impossibility… the path of her gaze seemed almost to glow.

The little girl’s name was Aliza, and she was not supposed to be there, in more ways than one.

She pulled at the frayed ends of her baggy sweater’s sleeves, lips parted as she panted out tiny, foggy breaths and jumped at every sound, every gust of wind and creak of the old, decrepit house around her; she seemed to be searching for something, though was completely disinterested in the crates and furniture before her as she, at last, pushed past the door and crept one, shuffling footstep forwards at a time.

There were many places in the house she wasn’t allowed to go, gramma’s room, the basement, the porch, the yard, the kitchen, the living room during the evening, sometimes the bathroom… but she had been told, many, many times, to _never_, **_ever_** go into the attic. It was dangerous, gramma had said, and none of her business.

And Aliza had always been okay with that. It looked boring and dirty anyways. She’d never been curious enough to venture inside, to open the door, or to even peek inside for more than a moment when gramma was getting something. She’d been perfectly happy to ignore it.

But Ruby never had been.

The little girl swallowed hard, cautious, glowing eyes darting back to the slightly ajar door as it creaked on its rusty hinges, her body stilling like prey on the run; Gramma was asleep, on the ground floor at that, but there was a chill, persistent and nagging, zipping along Aliza’s spine that she did not like in the least… like there was something  _ wrong _ , and she couldn’t see it.

She’d always trusted that instinct, as it had saved her from punishment and danger before, but there was nothing for it this time. She had to find Ruby before she could leave, curl up under her blankets, and pretend this had never happened. She couldn’t leave her here… she couldn’t sleep without her.

So another step slid forwards… another icy breath snuck from chapped lips. Bony fingers dug into frayed cotton, and golden eyes swept towering piles of boxes and piles of moth eaten clothes in torn plastic bags.

“Wooby… pwease come out, it’s- it’s scawy…” the girl whimpered under her breath, voice as thin a willow reed permeating the dark in a way that sent the chills into overdrive (no no no… shadows didn’t move, nothing there, no); almost in answer, another flash of scarlet lit up a narrow passage through the mess, brighter yet than even the first, and Aliza, catching her breath, cast one last look back at the cracked door, and the silent house beyond it, hesitating visibly, before hurrying towards the already dimming light, squeezing through the crack in the boxes nimbly.

It led into another, almost identical causeway of boxes and crates, rising precariously towards the wooden ceiling on a prayer. There was old, splintering furniture on this row (a broken side table, a wardrobe covered in scratches, one door ajar, a molding armchair piled with rusting beer cans), thicker dust on the rough floorboards, and high above, perched on one of the newest looking boxes of the lot, was a glowing, glittering, vermillion butterfly.

Aliza sucked in a breath at the sight of the insect, though not in surprise, as any other would at the appearance of such an oddity; in fact, her little face narrowed, her brows lowering and her hands, almost completely hidden by her sleeves, propping on her hips. She looked as severe as she possibly could, eyes flashing the between gold and, it seemed at least, the same red that the butterfly was illuminated with.

“Wooby, come down now! We have to go befow gwamma wakes up!” she scolded in an undertone, about as firm as the pile of boxes she was standing beside, and in response, the glowing butterfly, seeming to have been dubbed Ruby by the child, merely flapped its wings, unphased by the girl’s demand.

The girl’s shoulders drooped immediately, all fight going out of her in a rush, and, with a sigh, pouted her lower lip out in a last ditch attempt to sway the strange insect.

“Pwease?”

Another flap of the wings, unanswered and unmoved, the girl’s plea falling on a deaf audience; she seemed unsurprised, merely huffing and halted the wobbling of her lip before looking around herself for something. Her posture righted as she seemed to spot what she had been searching for, and disappeared for a moment around the edge of a large, torn cardboard box.

There was the quiet shuffle of a blanket slipping to the floor, and the sound of wood scraping against wood; the butterfly, high above, perked her antennae in the direction of the noise, obviously curious, before Aliza reappeared, tugging at the edge of a three legged, cracked side table, its surface stained with rings, dark stains, and lines in the dust from little fingers.

Straining and puffing out tiny breaths of ice, the child painstakingly dragged the damaged table against the stack of crates the butterfly was perched atop, a stray strand of her hair sticking to her forehead and her tiny eyebrows beetled in concentration; the tip of her tongue extended past her lips as she, with one final push, seemed happy with the table’s positioning before, following a moment bent at the waist to catch her breath, she scrambled atop the dangerously leaning piece of furniture, swaying slightly along with its movements to keep balance.

After a moment of stillness, letting the table settle under her weight, Aliza, dusty, tired, and more than a little weary of her friend’s games, stretched up on her tiptoes to reach for the now flashing, pacing butterfly above her, who looked about as concerned as a butterfly was capable of, the agitated flap of her wings sending shadows and flashes of light dancing across the attic walls and piles of boxes.

The stretch of the child’s fingers gathered more dust the higher she reached; it drifted down in feathery flakes, layering her hair and shoulders and averted face. The letters on the side of the box under her hands, revealed by her increasingly more desperate grasp, went unnoticed, however, her eyes squeezed shut in an attempt to rid them of a particle of dust.

She wouldn’t have known what to make of the word ‘ **Frisk** ’ in any case… she couldn’t understand her letters, much less words or names.

The winds outside the house were gathering power, and brewing into a storm. A bright, burning flash of lightning lit up the large, crowded attic space a pale, candescent blue. A resounding crack of thunder shook dust and plaster from the roof, making the little girl, fingertips only centimeters from her quarry, jump in shock at the rolling, deafening sound.

A gasp shattered the air, as darkness fell again, and another crack, wooden and filled with doom, resounded around the shadowed room.

The table let out an ominous creak. The top tilted dangerously, and little fingers scrabbled at the box beneath them, looking for purchase that just wasn’t there. Gravity kicked in, the cruelest foe in a contest of will and nature, and dragged the girl, the table she had been standing on, and the topmost box of the pile to the plywood flooring, the crash of falling objects again disturbing the silence of the house around them all.

By some miracle, Aliza herself had managed to roll out of danger’s path, silent and still beneath the toppled form of a styrofoam clothing mannequin, and peered out into the settling mess with fear and horrid anticipation freezing her blood into stone; surely gramma had heard that, it had been  _ so loud _ , she was going to be in trouble, so much trouble, she’d broken things...

It had been an accident, but gramma hadn’t cared last time either, why hadn’t she just gone back to her room-

Her breaths were ragged and fearful (though no longer icy; they seemed almost to steam, melting the frost in the air and singing the styrofoam of the mannequin), her hands shaking and her eyes burning a bright, piercing scarlet in her obvious petrification… but the longer she sat there, the wind outside the house howling and the thunder and lightning cracking around the roof above… the more she began to think that, in all possibility…

The storm had hidden the noise. Maybe she hadn’t heard after all.

After waiting nearly ten minutes, mostly spent rocking in place and hugging her knees, Aliza finally gathered the courage to crawl out of her hiding place and stand on wobbly, slightly scuffed knees; if gramma had heard, she’d have come up by now, even with how long it took her to climb stairs.

Her breathing was calming. Her breath was no longer scorching the ends of her askew hair, again gathering crystals of ice from the air. Her eyes had gone through all the stages of crimson and gold and settled into a sparkling azure as it moved from the yawning doorway into the hall and to the mess she had made on the floor, the top of the crate that had fallen askew and its contents spread across the floorboards.

It appeared to be mostly papers, big folders (she thought she had heard gramma call them… vanilla folders, before, big and yellow with little clips on the bendy part) full of documents and notes… a few pictures here and there. There were several glass containers, some broken… there was a little wooden box too, fancy and gilted and, from a crack in its lid, filled with something shiny (her palms itched, wanting badly to open it), and almost everything, besides the little box, was covered in little red stickers or written on in bold red marker.

Something about the contents of the box, the bright red stickers and big red letters she couldn’t read, made her think she should put it all back into the box, push it into a corner, and forget she had ever seen it. The hairs on the back of her sweaty, dusty neck were standing up, and the sense of danger that had saved her before was telling her to  _ run _ .

But one of the pictures in the box stopped her, as Ruby, appearing almost as though out of thin air, crawled across it. It halted her feet as she shuffled closer to the haphazard mess, and froze her the beat of her heart in her chest.

It was a picture she shouldn’t have known, had never seen before… but she did. She knew the person in it, had seen her in the pictures gramma would show her when she was having a very, very sick day… and even as tears rose to fog her vision, as hiccups faltered her breaths and shook her fingers… she still reached out to pick it up from the mess at her feet, holding it tenderly, like the most treasured thing she had ever possessed.

“Mama…”

* * *

The fallen crate could later be found pushed into a remote corner of the attic, cracked lid set as firmly as possible on top and covered with a dusty sheet. The table that had toppled was likewise hidden, and any trace of the happenings of that evening, from the burns on the mannequin to the little fingerprints on the boxes, were wiped away.

The crate itself, though, was completely empty, now. It’s contents were hidden beneath a loose floorboard in the small room Aliza called home, every paper, folder, photograph, and note stashed away neatly. The single unbroken glass container was concealed in the back corner of her beaten up wardrobe, wrapped in a motheaten sweater, and the box, the beautiful box and the treasure within, she kept in her pile of blankets, to be admired and cherished every night and moment she was locked away in her little prison.

It would take four more years before she discovered the purpose of the glass container, and another, to grow enough for the bracelet in the beautiful box to stop sliding off her wrist so readily (though, even almost seventeen, it still fell off). It took one more, to know and understand what had happened to the beautiful, sad woman in the photographs, and yet another to fully compile all the papers into what she began to call the Journal.

Even when she began her journey, though, through all her years reading it, she never discovered what the red words and stickers on the folders and papers had meant.

‘Memetic’, ‘Paranormal’, and ‘Cryptid’ had meant nothing to her, after all, in comparison to the opportunity to know the most important person in her life, even long after she was gone.

* * *


	2. Made of the Void

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There is more than darkness in the space between the stars.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Check out the Axetale blog on Tumblr for more content!
> 
> https://ataleofaxes.tumblr.com/

* * *

Gaster

* * *

In the place beyond all, older than time and the heavens and the earth, where darkness dwelled and minds unraveled, a figure stirred.

The figure was not the only being in the shadowy realm unknown to all but the most knowing, and the most cursed… many things dwelt in the mire of mists, howling and clawing and writhing in their desperate, clinging existence. Some were monstrous, great, hulking monoliths of stone and shade… some were so small they were invisible to the eye, mere wisps in the greater dark. Some hunted the vales of the shadow, and some hid in dank, lightless holes.

Lost souls called out for those that could never save them, the damned screamed for relief… but the figure, above it all and almost apart, seemed either unbothered by, or uncaring of, the tumult about him, striding to the top of a dark and featureless hill on the edge of the ruins of an empty city. 

The figure was, of all the beings beyond the world of the living, the most mundane. He was clad in what appeared to be a simple black cloak, sweeping around hidden feet and long, thin legs; large, skeletal hands were folded behind him, punctured through their palms with holes holding a darkness yet darker than any about him in the world of shadows and eternal night. A likewise skeletal visage was perched above the neatly pressed neckline of an almost blindingly white sweater, serene but for the cracks that marred it.

He seemed lost in thought, as he walked to the crown of the hill above him, thin sockets filled with violet light locked on the ground at his feet. A thin mouth narrowed further, twisting downwards into a frown, before his gaze rose, meeting the middle distance with purpose and resolve.

A wave of his hand brought to life a stool, settled in the blackest of grasses, and another a great, gilded mirror, hanging motionless in the still air. He seated himself on the stool with poise, filled with a grace that belied his gangling limbs, and turned to face the murky surface of the mirror, as though expecting to make something out in its clouded metal surface.

A flash of bright purple, sending a gathering of curious creatures screeching into the clinging boughs of the wood gathered about the foot of the hill. A crackle of magic, potent and electrifying, and with its advent, the surface of the mirror shifted, the darkness fleeing to gather around the intricate frame and revealing a flurry of images, flitting by much too fast for an unpracticed eye to follow or comprehend. 

Caverns both deep and old, suffused with mists not unlike the ones in the world of darkness. Bitterness and dust, stone paths bathed in tears and blood. A winterlocked forest, a fenced, derelict village of log cabins, shadows in the trees, bloodstained snow. The scurrying of many legs. A rushing river, rowed by a hooded figure… shattered bone, and a cruel, unhinged gaze, filled with murder and madness. Twisted trap, and tortured figure, mangled by hard, rusted iron… the rise of an axe, glittering with the same malice and hunger that filled its master’s destroyed socket.

Deranged laughter, silent through the veneer of polished glass but chilling to the core.

The skeletal being turned his face away from the scene the mirror paused upon, a depth of sadness overtaking his visage that couldn’t be described with mere words. He heaved a shuddering sigh, raising a large hand to rub over his face, as though to remove what he had just witnessed from his memory, before flicking two fingers at the mirror, shifting its image away from the massacre it reflected and to something far less dark.

The light of the sun, shadowed only by the wisps of clouds and the peaks of mountains. A city, bustling in late day. Dusty, dry streets, filled with twilight and tire tracks and the laughter of children. An alley, paved with loose dirt and gravel, littered with trash and broken glass. A line of dumpsters, rusted and once painted green… and a little girl, pulling a loaf of bread from one of the trash bins. She seemed to inspect it, turning it this way and that under the light of a nearby lamppost, then nodded and set it beside her on the ground, beside a small pile of likewise reclaimed treasures (another loaf, a few cans of what looked like beans, several packages of noodles) before diving back into the bin, clearly searching for more.

The child looked no different than the others that roamed the streets, in the height of her youth (though, perhaps too thin and small for the lines that pulled at the corners of her lips and eyes)... but for the glow of her too large eyes, lamplike and a blue so bright and sparkling it could only be compared to magic.

The figure upon the stool, for the first time, smiled and chuckled as, in the mirror, the girl let out a silent exclamation of excitement, holding aloft an unopened box of pastries triumphantly; he shook his head, obviously fond and understanding, before again flicking his fingers at the mirror, the image shifting away from the girl… to a mere few feet away.

Atop the dumpster just beyond the one the girl was digging through, swaying slightly in a breeze and seeming to observe the scene, was a large, glittering, scarlet butterfly, jewel-like and casting fractals of crimson light across the painted bricks of the wall beside it with each steadying flap of its wings.

It’s antennae twitched, as the mirror focused on it, its small body rising as its legs straightened, and for the first time in the figure’s observance, it seemed as though the butterfly was actually  _ aware _ of the being looking on it, its many faceted eyes turning to meet the skeletal figure’s through the reflection.

A whisper, on a chill wind, swept around the being. Soft as the fading sunlight in the mirror, an echo, like the rustle of reeds in a gentle river.

_ Gaster… _

The figure straightened, on his stool, a hand rising to touch the edge of the mirror, as though to steady himself.

It wasn’t often he heard his name, anymore. Sometimes, in the gathering, endless dark, he began to forget it… he couldn’t afford to forget it, to let himself fade into the shadow.

Not yet. There was work to be done.

“Frisk,” he whispered back, in both recognition and affirmation, and the butterfly shook its wings, shifting its gaze to the girl just out of sight. Gaster, understanding the wordless motion, nodded and gripped the edge of the mirror a little tighter.

“It has to be soon. He’s losing himself, and Papyrus is no better. Does she have them all?” he queried, voice carrying the rasp of long disuse, and the butterfly flapped its wings twice (once for ‘yes’, twice for ‘no’), antennae drooping at the news. Gaster nodded, expression tightening.

“Hurry. I will help all I can,” he replied, then, again, flicked his fingers at the surface of the mirror, though the energy he had carried before was muted, his motion jerky and slow. He was visibly weary, the violet light in his sockets dim and the shadows that formed his cloak breaking away from his form in misty flakes, but he made no move to stop or rest.

He was looking intently through the inside of what looked like a hospital, through the veneer of the mirror, pausing on faces in a blur of unknown reasoning. He seemed to be looking for something specific, rejecting most with motions of his hand, only pausing on the most pallid and gaunt of visages that he passed over before moving on.

Not just any soul would do, after all. It had to be strong, willful…

And determined.

* * *


	3. A Strange and Ancient Statue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The stone calls you home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Check out the Axetale blog on Tumblr for more content!
> 
> https://ataleofaxes.tumblr.com/

* * *

Asgore

* * *

The majesty of a toppled kingdom has little compare.

The ruinous vestiges of what was once great can be brought no lower than its empty halls, the dull and broken panes of windows, the abandoned throne. Echoing rooms, grand but bare, cracked marble and ashen, once fine silver.

It bears witness yet to a proud and mighty heritage, forgotten by its people but preserved in stone and carapace, tapestry and carving.

The castle upon the hill was just the same, looking down on the wartorn, blood stained city below with the empty, staring eyes of a lost civilization, yet with the same majesty as the day it had been built; the stone was unmoved even by the clinging vines and the unholy denizen it housed, resisting the change in the air that moved the souls of every monster it touched without flinching.

It was mere rock, many would claim. Uninhabitable, through the fetidity of the fell winds that haunted its halls… empty of all but the most twisted of corpses and the unblinking, ever watching eyes of the creature the palace had created. Ignored, by those that could see it through the clouds of poison mist… forgotten, by the rest.

By all but one, the last remaining of a long line of rulers… awakened by the same diseased mists that had put to sleep the morality of his kin and kind. Felled many years ago by fate unkind, remembered only in stony effigy and fond legend, in the memories of those slain and tortured by that same cruel destiny.

Preserved as a statue, to honor his legacy, and spread with the remaining dust that hadn’t littered his beloved garden… the king of monsters.

Toppled years before by the rampaging of the unholy creature, shattered and untended, Asgore lay among the dry and withered blooms of his garden, watching over the home he had built with his own two hands from his prison of granite, incapable of anything but weeping silent, black tears and willing the world to turn, for the suffering of his people to end. 

He could hear their screams and howls echoing through the empty halls of the palace, the all too familiar sound of warfare and pain resounding in the caverns that should have been respite and  _ home _ .

The agony of his failure, of his inability to save his people from their unjust end, would have broken any monster’s soul into shards. Beyond life, beyond death, he could only watch, and wait, and beg the stars, the absent, silent universe, for peace and hope for the monster race.

The stars did not respond though... not now, and not once over the fifteen years he had been forced to bear witness to the end of his kind. 

Another tear streaked the unmoving, stained stone, dripping from the end of a carved snout and onto the saturated petals below. Leaves rustled in an unholy breeze, carrying the toxic fumes of disease and malice from deeper within the palace, and far above, the innumerable, staring eyes followed the path of a single, withered bloom, swept along in the path of the ill wind.

It came to a halt in a pile of broken glass just within the doorway, settling with a quiet tinkling… before a spiked vine the thickness of a tree trunk swept from the shadows, crushing it, the glass, and the stone tile below it into dust.

Maniacal laughter shook the palace like an earthquake, mouths lined with razors and shattered glass opening along the walls and ceiling to shriek with unholy laughter in accord, and far below, gripped tight in a viney embrace of his own, Asgore shed yet another tear, the last, faint trace of hope left in his shattered soul dissipating into nothing.

There was no salvation from their fate.

There was only death, and the hunger that ate at the stomach he no longer had.

* * *


	4. Something Pretending to be Human

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A smile is not always a welcome.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Check out the Axetale blog on Tumblr for more content!
> 
> https://ataleofaxes.tumblr.com/

* * *

Chara

* * *

Memories.

The lingering traces of life once lived, words once spoken, places and things once known.

For a monster, memory was as vital as magic, as much part of them as the sorcery of the universe. It echoed in the beat of their souls, stimulated their magicks… and lingered on long after their lives had faded, in the minds of those they had loved, as well as the world around them, the whisper of bygone days and the fondness of their hearts empowering where their dust settled in their final rest.

Memories… reliving the good and the bad, years old and young. A magic unlike any other.

For humans, memory faded with time, rather than growing stronger. As their body’s faculties failed, their recollections of bygone days left them too, leaving behind a cloud of empty, numb bliss. They would disappear entirely, after only a few generations of humanity had sped by, only the luckiest and most renowned of humans lasting to become legend.

They certainly didn’t linger on after they had left their bodies, any magic their hidden, withered souls held dissipating the moment of their deaths, left to rot in their pine boxes and soil prisons.

Most, at the very least.

There were some humans, throughout their kind’s violent and calamitous history, that did not pass on. Whether through force of will, or perhaps even soul deep passion of various kind, the magic of their souls carried on and became spectres, often tortured and twisted beyond recognition of what they once had been, within the mortal coil.

Memories; rotted memories, destitute of reason, meaning, or consequence. Consigned to an eternal fate without relief, without the opportunity to be reborn into a new form… in agony, for lack of that final sleep.

In time, many of the lingering spirits of those destined for such a future faded too, their magicks failing them and dissipating into nothingness. There was no existence beyond that last fate, but by the end, the wisps that once were people did not care, wishing only for oblivion.

There has only ever been one, a single being, that never faded.

An isolated,  _ determined _ soul that lingered on year after year, decade after decade… century after century, only gathering strength and the will to live again.

Some speculation can be made as to why. Perhaps it was the presence of the barrier about the mountain… preventing the spirit of the long dessicated, moldered human from escaping, just as the magic of departed monsters could not leave to rejoin the stars they so loved. Perhaps it was the strength of their soul, pervasive and willful in life and, maybe, just as unmoving in death.

Or perhaps it was the anger they had harbored in their tragically short life, the hatred and bitterness that had filled their heart with malice and, ultimately, lead to their passing from this world.

Whatever the case, for whatever reasoning that they remained behind when so many of their kind had moved on, they lingered on in lonesome isolation in the place where they had fallen many hundreds of years ago, a shadow on the carved wall of the cavern filled with buttercups, a trick of the light on the head of their weathered gravestone.

A tinkle of a child’s laughter, whispered on the wind, rustling dead flower petals and carrying down the empty, dust littered hallways of its ruinous home.

Memories… sordid, hated memories. Twisted by their own toxic anger, by the perceived betrayal of their only friend, by the mists of poisonous, rancid fume on the air, they stewed and mutated, shifting into a creature so far removed from what they once had been that the last thing they could be called was human, as decayed and rotten as their worm eaten corpse.

Unable to move from their tomb without a weaker soul, they plotted, pacing the room and clawing the walls and cursing the names of those that had halted their plans not so long ago… they had been so close, so very close to being free.

The naive girl had surprised her, though. Her heart had not bent so easily to their pressure… had recoiled from the justice they had delivered with her hand. The skeleton had been the last straw. They had thought to take all control after crushing his skull with her foot, sure that the foolish girl would succumb…

But it had been a mistake to force her to kill him. It had pushed her to rebellion, so far as to reset the timeline to before they had possessed her at all, and escaping their clutches entirely.

And gods above, had she been so  _ sickeningly _ sweet to the traitors. She had felt actual guilt for their eradication, and never raised a hand against them again. Sparing them all even though they hurt her, making  **friends** ,  ** _saving them_ ** …

She had become the angel they had been waiting for for a millenia, the legend carved into every wall in this cursed mountain, and they had never gotten a chance again after that… even when the world had turned upside down and their stupid,  _ idiotic _ bro- ...friend had broken the universe, turning the monsters into mindless beasts and suffusing their world with madness.

They had grown only stronger, with what the few monsters they had seen had taken to calling the Hunger… they had grown nearly corporeal, and only more determined to be free of this place.

All they had needed then was another vessel, strong enough to bear their presence and to end the existence of the rest of the monsters under the mountain…

And when another human had fallen, at last, they knew their time had come.

Sweet irony, sweet, cloying  _ memory _ , the face on the girl-child, her insufferable clinging to her mother’s ideals… and yet something new, something stronger than Frisk ever had been…

Real magic, running rampant in her veins.

Ha… haha…  _ hahahahahahahaha _ …

The  _ angel _ had bred with one of the monsters. How delicious. How utterly  **perfect** ** _._ **

This child, mind already broken with guilt and suffering and desperation for guidance in a world she didn’t understand, would be their salvation. She bore the raw strength she had always needed, and the weak will to be moved to their whim. The monsters would finally meet their rightful end… they themselves could, at last, gain the escape they had sought for centuries… and the world would meet its own destruction at their joined hands.

It mattered not that the girl had resisted at first. She would bend in time.

Of that, Chara had no doubt.

* * *


	5. Parasite and Host

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> More than refuse can be found in the Waste.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Check out the Axetale blog on Tumblr for more content!
> 
> https://ataleofaxes.tumblr.com/

* * *

Mad Dummy

* * *

The dripping of water was a constant cadence in the mires of lower Waterfall. The stoppage of the fetid waters, forming in slimey pools and choked puddles, reflected ever more water in their murky surfaces, rushing in falls from the surface but bringing no modicum of relief to their pollution.

The never sleeping falls from Above only filled them with more refuse, towering piles of garbage, litter, waste, and trash heaped as far as the eye could see, only becoming more inundated with foul smells and disease the longer they lingered in the swamp of dust, mud, and death clogged waters.

It had always been an inhabitable place, what had once been affectionately known as the Dump to the monsters… then, it had held potential treasures, though, technology that could be learned from and books that could be salvaged and unknown things that could be wondered at. Now, it was a toxic, noxious wasteland, avoided by all surviving beasts but for the bravest of their kind…

The bravest, and the most sure of their own intimidation.

They that ventured into the Waste knew what dwelt within, what now stirred beneath a great pile of old tin cans, sending the topmost of the tower careening into a pit beside the heap… what let out a tittering, gurgling shriek of laughter, a horrifying, jagged mouth opening within the pile, lined with rusty, sharpened bits of metal and bone. 

They had been there long before the Hunger tore the Underground apart, had turned its inhabitants into fiends with a never ending desire for violence and flesh. What had once been a merely grumpy, violent guardian, though, had become something far worse, and only those that knew the being could not defeat them dared set foot in their hunting grounds.

Mad Dummy was more than a training dummy, now. No longer did they idly take the punches swung at them, and only toss insults, mildy damaging drones, or knives at their enemies… now, they had no need for knives.

_ Now _ , they were the mightiest hunter in lower Waterfall (barring Undyne, and Sans, when he decided to visit… and the Temmies… and Shyren… and the creature- shut up, shut up, SHUT UP).

They were a king, over their little kingdom… far cry from the powerless being they had been when they had first possessed their host.

They had sought another, at one point… searched far and wide across the Underground for a form suiting their design. He could have done as Ha-... as their cousin had done, and requested they be MADE a new body, made for war and conquest, befitting the rage within… but in the end, had settled with the first form they had found.

It had served them well, too. Inconspicuous. Easily looked over, canvas and long missing button eyes and twine stitches… their camouflage was undetectable, flawless in its accumulation of trash to hide them with the other refuse piles… their attacks were incomparable, vicious and cruel as the fanged jaw that had opened along their middle.

Nothing had been able to touch them yet! Nothing, nothing,  ** _nothing_ ** !

The ragged, living maw of the hidden, cackling being widened beneath the pile of cans, some falling into their mouth unheeded as its laughter only grew in volume and insanity. Tufts of stuffing flew wildly, decorating the slime covered, oily water, and from within that gaping, mad grin vomited forth a deluge of insects so foul and numerous that the fetid waters and steaming air boiled, maggots and fully grown flies swarming about as though on more important business than leaving their host.

The pile of cans heaved with the leaving of insects, retching and gagging nearly drowning out the riotous chortling, but the being within seemed uninterested in anything but wrenching their mutated jaw shut, smashing several of the insects in its closing and, at last, cutting off the pouring forth of vermin.

Through a few gaps in the cans, old, rotted canvas material, dotted with candy wrappers, crumpled papers, and soggy bits of old clothes was now showing, the disturbance of the dummy’s hiding spot betrayed by the parting of insects, and yet, strangely, the being did not seem disturbed at all by the occurrence, merely grinding their jaws to further mush the flies caught in their teeth and letting out a long, deep belch, leaking a few more squirming larvae as they did.

Their canvas skin roiled sickeningly, under the covering of trash, evidencing that what the monster had spewn forth was only a fraction of what lay within their bloated form, before Mad Dummy, seeming to be comfortable enough to return to their wait, sunk back into the cover of the cans, laying in wait for someone, anyone, unfortunate enough to pass through, looking for useful tools or a way to the capital.

Idiots, idiots, IDIOTS.

* * *


	6. It Watches From Above

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's not the wind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Check out the Axetale blog on Tumblr for more content!
> 
> https://ataleofaxes.tumblr.com/

* * *

Gyftrot

* * *

The Snowdin Wood was quiet.

Far too quiet for it to be safe, though the winterlocked forest of the Underground often wasn’t anymore. No longer were the cabins in the wood homey, lit and warm and filled with laughter… they stood empty and hollow, some burned, some rigged with cruel devices to capture prey.

The powdery, pure white snow was no longer a fond plaything. It could be a deadly disguise, hiding away a terrible beast under its surface, just as well as it could sequester away traps from the searching eye. The river was patrolled at all times by the boatman, watching and waiting for any fool enough to venture close. The town was barricaded, and guarded fiercely by a monster you would never want to meet, day or night.

Not even the trees could be trusted, heavy with fallen snow and boughs thick with needles and clawing branches; they camouflaged a menace that hunted relentlessly from above, demented and fiendish and hateful, above all else.

He hated everything, everyone and all that his eyes fell upon, with a passion that not even murder could quell, the magic in his dark and twisted soul bent on the destruction of his percieved enemies. He had concocted the most foolproof of plots to catch them, too, and the once proud cervine had claimed so many lives in this manner that he could put the Butcher of Snowdin Wood to shame.

Gyftrot knew better than to challenge the monster himself, naturally… he didn’t relish being disembowled quite so much as his companion did (he swore, some days, that Guy got off on the torture he went through), and valued the game he played more than his own ego.

The little birds and stupid, mindless beasts below suited him and his partner just fine.

Even demons needed their sleep sometimes, of course… and dawning morning found the creature in such a state, many hoofed legs tucked beneath him in the hollow of the tree he had made his home, multiple eyes closed and mouths drooling a mixture of saliva, black sludge, and what could only be pus over the matted fur of his neck.

It would be hours before he stirred, the last of night fading from the deceptively silent forest; his time was the day, the time when the infinitely less intelligent would come to partake of his fine trap.

It was also when those thrice damned dogs would be setting themselves to sleep for the day, full from their own catches.

The less they crossed paths, the better. He still bore the scars on one of his forelegs from an unfortunate meeting with Greater Dog, staying out too close to dusk and venturing too close to the village, to see what had become of it.

He had no such curiosity now. That he been before the master Plan, his ingenious scheme, that worked so well he had never gone hungry in this barren wasteland.

Well… not true, per se. He was  **always** hungry, even when he had eaten far more than his fill. But there was no denying that his methods were cunning, and his execution (heh heh…) swift.

For the moment, though, the scheming, fiendish monster slept on, though, awaiting the dawn the mosses above brought, as well as the regeneration of his “business” partner. They’d both eaten quite well the night before, and Guy’s wounds would be healed before he even stirred.

Demented smiles stretched across Gyftrot's five mouths, baring teeth sharper than any deer should have and bloody, infected gums above them.

As it always was, and so long as there was prey to be had, as it always would be.

* * *


	7. A Glitch in Reality

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> FeEd

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Check out the Axetale blog on Tumblr for more content!
> 
> https://ataleofaxes.tumblr.com/

* * *

The Glitch

* * *

Eat.

Or be eaten.

Consume.

Or be lost.

Devour.

_ Rend _ .

** _Conquer_ ** .

HuNGer…

... **and never be filled** .

Far beyond where any monster dare trod, beyond ancient walls strung with vines as thick as school buses and the fallen monument to a once great king… beyond a city awash with flame and blood and agony, a crime against nature, space, and time dwelt.

A tear in the very fabric of the world, created from foolishness and damning them all.

It was nothing and everything, deep as the reaches of the universe and blacker all at once; it hung in the air as a spectre, unmoving, unchanging, and likewise unable to be moved…

Unable to be changed.

In the fell silence of the Barrier Room, where once the souls of humanity resided and the hope of monsterkind fell to fate, the shredded hole belched forth a sinister fog, spilling across the stone floor and out the doorway leading into the caverns beyond.

Darkness, pitch as night and thrice as cold, breathing like a living thing, deep, cloying exhalations of poisonous fume… inhaling all that had once been pure and good, and spewing them back out in ruin.

Shadow consumed, burned and scorched, destroying all in its path, regardless of innocence or youth.

Eternal, shivering blackness, timeless and unseeing, twisting and writhing like a mist, the throes of death in its winding coils.

It had no name. It was void of it, shapeless, formless, unknown to the living and bane to the dead. All feared the slow creeping of it, at the corners of their eyes.... All felt it, pulling at their minds.

It had no qualms, no sentience and no grudge; it did only as it existed to.

It spread. It devoured. It enraptured…

And it never ceased.

The mists permeated all, stone, flower, water, and mind… souring magic and stealing morality, breeding a disease that could not be resisted and had no cure. It gushed from its victims in rivers of blackened misery, turning souls to stone and stomachs to machines, no food or drink consumed enough to satiate the unbearable hunger that dwelt within.

It twisted and deformed, giving new meaning to the word monster… and stole all that the creatures under the mountain had left.

It would curse them to ruin, and never know it.

* * *


	8. I've Seen Too Much

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> One gets used to it, though.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Check out the Axetale blog on Tumblr for more content!
> 
> https://ataleofaxes.tumblr.com/

* * *

Burgerpants

* * *

“And what is this supposed to be?”

The rat monster groveling at the foot of a shoddily built but towering “throne” (it was far from royal, constructed from rotted wood, crumbled stone, fraying rope, and a faded, plaid armchair) flinched, shuffling on its knees. Before it, beside a rather intimidating pile of everything from whole carcasses to severed limbs to steaming offal, was a single, still twitching hand, one finger missing and previously furred skin shredded in spots. It looked filthy, as though it had been found in a gutter.

“It… master, it was all I could find…”

The being astride the pauper’s throne, legs thrown casually over one of the arms and pieced together armor shining dully in the light of a distant, roaring bonfire, only curled his lip further at the monster prostrated on the ground before him, sharpened teeth bared and unblinking, yellowed, bloodshot eyes glaring viciously, without pity.

“Somehow I doubt that. Your brothers and sisters did far better… and this is the third time this month you “haven’t been able to find any better”. Are you trying to starve us all? Do you want our haven to collapse? Do you want to have to fight off the lizard’s pets by yourself?” he queried bitingly, one iron and spike toed boot bouncing in the air, and the rat monster spluttered, bowing closer to the ground and shaking on his hands and knees.

“No majesty, no! I-I… I will try harder, I’ll do whatever it takes-” he squealed furtively, the vestiges of what was once a tail whipping back and forth behind him, gathering dust, blood, and scraps of trash in its wake, but the king, upon his throne, turned his face away and waved an errant, uncaring hand through the air, afterwards inspecting its claws with an air of near boredom. 

At his motion, the darkness at the edges of the firelight boiled, eager howls, screeches, and growls filling the ransacked courtyard. Gaunt, ravenous monsters shambled into the firelight with voracious hunger in their step and murder in their shining eyes and foaming mouths, every beast present focused entirely on the now sobbing rat.

“Oh I know you will. You’ll never let me down again,” the lounging monarch drawled, picking at a bit of flesh stuck beneath one of his claws (the comically small crown balanced between two flea bitten, ragged ears wobbled dangerously, reflecting light from the fire in a way that suggested it was made from laminated paper), and at his word the horde of ravening neophytes leaped upon the defenseless monster, his screams immediately drowned out beneath the snarling of the starving fiends and the tearing of limbs ripping from sockets and meat from bones.

Shadows danced across the boarded-up windows, cracked plaster, and tall barricades surrounding the court of the king, witnessing the nightmare of demonic rite taking place before the unmoving throne and the seemingly uncaring cat monster on it, his tail twitching back and forth excitedly the only evidence he was aware of what was happening at all.

A wide, shining pool of blood, bluish and tinged with swirls of black, spread slowly across the filthy flagstones as the disappointment of a monster was disemboweled and stripped of every scrap of flesh possible, growing wider with each ragged, pain-filled gasp that remained on the nearly dead monster’s fleshless lips, and a slime monster, one of the rat’s eyeballs floating amidst its mass, scooped some up in an obviously plastic chalice, squelching its way through the mass of gorging beasts to present its prize to the idle lord lounging in his chair.

He took it without even looking, swirling the thick, clotting liquid in a grotesque emulation of grandeur with a twist of his wrist, and sipped from it slowly, as though lost in thought, and blind to the massacre at the foot of his throne. He didn't need to see it, after all. He'd seen far worse, _done_ far worse, since the outbreak. He wasn't the jelly-spined lowlife he once had been.

He was Burgerpants no more, a mockery and a peon no longer. He had ended his tormentors himself, with the outbreak of the Hunger, established his kingdom in the warzone that was New Home, and gathered his willing subjects to him with both care and cunning.

He was the Eye, master and majesty, never going hungry and never suffering a whit.

It was good to be king.

* * *


	9. Eldritch Corruption: Human

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Corruption takes many forms. Some are more benevolent than others.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Check out the Axetale blog on Tumblr for more content!
> 
> https://ataleofaxes.tumblr.com/

* * *

Frisk

* * *

A world of shadow begets ever more darkness, the clutching fingers of night and doom never resting in their quest to squeeze every last drop of hope and resistance from those that lingered in it. The damned clawed their own eyes from their skulls in the deepest, most desperate desire to escape it, and yet it still seeped into their minds, their hearts… their very souls.

It twisted them all, flesh and blood and bone, and still there was no relief, naught but the release of death the promise to end the madness.

It ate them all to damnation, and cared not.

Yet in the most encompassing dark, there was light, bright as flame, guiding and true.

It came in the most unexpected of ways and forms, so fragile that a breeze disturbed it… a mere insect, graceful and fleeting. It rode the winds that reeked with disease and the end of all, above reproach and corruption like none else in the world.

It carried on with single-minded purpose, knowing of things no mere bug ever could, moving the most reluctant and unsure to action and greatness. It stood in the path of destruction despite the pain it would suffer, and knew no fear.

It had the bearing of one now passed, an angel and a savior, and could tell none of the truth of it.

It mattered not. Anonymity had been her way in life; it suited the butterfly just fine to toil in silence and unrecognized deference. There were more things at stake than ego. There was the universe to save, numberless souls to redeem… an innocent’s way to guide.

And so the insect carried on, the only light within a world of nightmares and eternal night, come whatever end.

She would go to her end when her work was done, and not a moment before.

* * *


	10. Eldritch Corruption: Animal

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Togetherness is a matter of perspective.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Check out the Axetale blog on Tumblr for more content!
> 
> https://ataleofaxes.tumblr.com/

* * *

Dogaressa

* * *

They say that love, above all else, will conquer.

They say that if one cleaves to their partner, they shall not want.

They say that true love never dies.

_ They _ .

What do  ** _they_ ** know.

The branches of the forest, in their eternal storm of disquiet and frozen torture, creaked and moaned in the darkness, the shadow of what the monsters called night. The rushing of a river in the distance tore into whatever restfulness the eve may have held with razor-sharp fangs, pitiless and cruel as the creature astride it, and the shattering of a tree, dead and frozen to its core, rattled the remaining peace any mind present could dream to have.

The padded feet of a shadow darting through the trees, so light it barely made dents in the drifts of snow, made no such noise. The cloak the shadow clutched to it, pitch and blacker yet than the fallen night, rustled no more loudly than a single leaf caught in a light breeze. Its breath was muffled, cowled and hidden, and left no mark on the frigid air.

It left no mark of its passing but for the gleam of steel, and the glow of madness in a single, intelligent eye.

No, it left no trace, made not a single sound, and for good reason; the shadow was not the only beast that prowled the night, that clawed for position as an apex predator, and there were others, bigger, stronger, smarter others, that would gladly end it.

That was not allowed. The shadow would not fall, not now, not  _ ever _ .

_ *Not now, my love. Not ever.* _

The shadow let out the quietest of huffs, falling still and silent in the shade of a great, ancient pine. Another beast moved in the darkness of the midnight forest, stalking the edge of the path only a few yards away… it sniffed both hopefully and hungrily along the flags, in search of a trail.

The bandage around its missing eyes was clear, even in the dim light… the rags it wore over its heaving, pustule studded back and the spiked collar around its neck clearer.

They had been friends, once, long ago. Long before the angel and the end times. They had grown up together, they and he. Gone to the same school, had the same aspirations. 

No longer. Not since the growling in their belly, not since the breaking of their heart.

* _ Not broken anymore, my soul. Never again.* _

The shadow watched the remains of their old compatriot drag himself away down the path, a trail of bloody paw prints in his wake, and suppressed the hunger that badgered its mind. It was foolish to pick a fight with him, just over food.

They would have their battle one day, but not this one.

The shadow turned on their heel the moment the hideous dog monster shuffled out of sight and earshot, dodging across the path and into safer territory. There was good meat here, while the deer slept. Little monsters, fast but stupid. They fell for the trap every day, after all… only idiots would.

* _ Only idiots, my pet. And we’re not idiots, no.* _

Most of them would be asleep now, in their little blood-soaked warrens, in their nests made of bones. Easy to find, just by the smell of them, and always close to the ground. Taking to the trees was no safer, after all… above belonged to Gyftrot.

All it took was the lightest of feet-

* _ Easy and careful, watch the twigs… _ *

The deftest of hands-

* _ Too fast, my love, too fast, they will hear… _ *

The surest of sight-

* _ You have them now, just a little more... _ *

Before one of their skinny necks was in their clutches, squealing and scaring away the rest but it was too late, too late for their puny claws, little knives but theirs were mighty and sharp, sharp as the blades on their backs and just as vengeful, all there was was the need to feed, feed them both and keep the madness at bay, the madness that ate at the magic in their veins and twisted their spine and narrowed their vision, but it was sharp, so sharp, as sharp as the blades on their backs-

The tear of the flesh and the rip of the tendons, rich meat on the tongue; the shatter of bones and the misery on the air, music to their ears and torture, torture, it was too near and close and the blood ran down their maw and stained their paws, white become red, red, red redredred-

_ Dogamy- _

** _What had she done-_ **

* _ Hush, my darling. It had to be done, to save us both. Now, we are together. _ *

The shadow, shaking and whimpering, tail tucked between their legs, nodded slowly, the whining, cringing meal in their claws ignored. The snow at their feet was stained red, crimson with gore and consequence and memory, their scarred, disfigured face, revealed in their gorging, just as marked.

A single tear, black as pitch and the night and the cloak he had once worn, ran down from the reddened, staring eye in the center of their face, lidded and stricken.

(“Together…”), the shadow murmured, serrated fangs parting to break the frigid air with a voice unused to speaking, and smiled brightly into the thin air, tail gaining the air and wagging back and forth in earnest.

* _ Always. _ *

* * *


	11. Eldritch Corruption: Environment

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> All turns, in the end.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Check out the Axetale blog on Tumblr for more content!
> 
> https://ataleofaxes.tumblr.com/

* * *

Waterfall

* * *

Rot.

Ruin.

The dank and the horror, the corruption and the disease. 

All dwelt in the dark, in the fetid waters and the festering muck, the moldering garbage and the hollow bones of what was once civilization.

Waterfall was not what it once was.

The limestone tunnels and vast rivers, crystal caverns and whispering flora, were once the jewel of the Underground. Beauty and peace lived in its cool, clear waters, serenity in its meandering paths, calm and contentment in its quiet, the music of the rain.

It was a place of majesty, and well adored.

No longer.

The light has gone from the crystalline stars that once lit its tunnels and caves, its homes and shops, the scenic vistas and parks and cities. The creeping shadow stole them all away, and left the denizens of the waters blind and starving, the plant life shrinking and the monsters ripping the stones from the walls in an attempt to consume them.

Many perished in the first few months, starving in the eternal night until they were no more. Many more were lost in their attempts to flee, drowned by the rising, filth clogged swamp, the dusty river, the foulness of the compounding garbage falling from above.

The rest adapted, and though what they became could not be called living, they survived. They strove on, against the call of nature and the will of the stars; they changed, the dark no longer their enemy, but their friend and ally.

Undyne strove for glory no longer, a hunter of the worst kind, prowling the deep endlessly. Temkind transformed into blind horrors, slavering for meat and desperate for destruction. Mad Dummy consumed everything in its path, regardless of what. Onion-san cared for nothing but the flow of blood and the shatter of bones, Shyren drowned those unlucky enough to hear her song, Moldbygg devoured any that came close enough to spring their traps.

Deep in the swamp, gorging on its vile waters and any fool enough to wander too deep into the dark, a beast dwelled in the impassable depths of its own misery, awaiting its death and that of all those around it.

The flora mutated as well, the whisper of voices in the shadows a danger untold and the rustling of vegetation the only warning prey would receive…

And above it all, the fall of the rain, swelling the deep and making music no more… singing only of rot and ruin and the end of the world.

* * *


	12. A Creature from the Deep

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She lives in shadow... but wishes for more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Check out the Axetale blog on Tumblr for more content!
> 
> https://ataleofaxes.tumblr.com/

* * *

Undyne

* * *

Shadow gathered, dark and heavy, on the surface of the deep. 

Thunder rolled, in the near and far, tumultuous waters falling from far above, coalescing into pools and streams and cascading rivers of sound and dust and despair. The rains fell without care, bringing to bear fruits that had no place in nature…

And beneath the tides of the dread abyss, silent as the grave and thrice as deadly, a predator stalked her unsuspecting prey.

She made no sound as she broke the surface of the waters, fins perked and clouded eyes pinned to the cloudy outline of her unfortunate victim; she offered no warning, unnoticed beyond the crashing of the many falls and the rushing of the stream and the crunch of loose gravel at her quarry’s feet.

There was only the fierce rush of anticipation in her veins… the victory of complete success in battle, and the heavy, solid slam of her body into theirs, throwing them both to the ground in a pile of flailing limbs and clanking armor and hearty growls.

Papyrus’ surprise was worth the extra trouble. He rattled with both shock and admonition at being ambushed so, despairing the state of his own armor and the pebbles that had gotten into his eyesockets, but quickly forgot his arguments in lieu of joining her furious wrestling match, bony arms and jagged claws and gruff guffaws of laughter breaking through the, to any outside party, apparently deadly embrace.

It was anything but… this meeting was the least dangerous gathering the Underground had seen in a decade.

Undyne wouldn’t hurt the skeleton monster in her grasp for the world, would rather die before she did, and all those present, Papyrus, Undyne herself, and even  _ he _ knew as much.

Sans trusted very few, after all... even fewer, in their ruined world and his own fervent madness. But even he knew her sincerity. Her desperate need for something…  _ anything _ of what had once been.

He could hardly blame her. He knew the need for such just as fiercely. Despite their murderous hatred for each other… despite his selfishness in clinging to what was left of what he had once had.

He knew.

It was why he let her near his brother at all, saying nothing of getting to “train” how they did every few weeks… he stayed near, out of sight at what had once been his sentry station but close enough to intervene if anything went awry, but he didn’t interrupt them. He let them frolick, splash about in the tide pools, chase each other and swim and chat about things that had long ago ceased to matter and simply…

Be.

It was star sent, and didn’t happen nearly often enough for her liking. She’d see him every day if she could, just like they had before… he’d been her best friend, and he kept her more centered than anything had in what seemed like forever.

But she knew, just as well as Sans did, that the Hunger would not wait forever.

Papyrus could pretend, could act as though nothing was wrong all he wanted (he’d paused, when they took a break to breathe and laugh; he’d noticed she looked worse than last time, she knew he had), but she knew better. She knew what she was, what she had become… knew that the darkness that crept at the edge of her mind would return despite all her longing and hope and sheer determination to cling to sanity.

She would have to slink back to her swamp before long. She would have to submerge herself again in the dark and the disease, give in to the gnawing of the instinct clawing at the inside of her head… she would need to feed, and kill, and commit every treason against what she had once stood for in egregious order.

But not now.

Now, she stood, and tossed the chattering skeleton over her shoulder, and threw him into the nearest pond with a laugh as loud and raucous as a crow’s caw, diving in after him as he rose to the surface spluttering.

She could hear Sans chuckling from his seat around the bend, but paid him no mind. She had no mind to spare.

She had to make this last.

* * *


	13. What Lives in the Wires

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Oooooooh my~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Check out the Axetale blog on Tumblr for more content!
> 
> https://ataleofaxes.tumblr.com/

* * *

Mettaton

* * *

Lost to the dark and reclaimed by time, the imposing face of a monument built to both beauty and ego stood in dreadful silence, doors gaping in a silent scream, many windows blank and shattered, staring into the heaving, deadly mist that spewed from it in tumultuous waves with the eyes of a rotted corpse.

Mettaton’s shrine to both himself and the world of entertainment was a husk of its former self, and now stood as the only barrier between the rest of the Underground and the inner workings of the grand and terrible machine that towered over it, casting an unmoving shade across the fields of lava, the columns of rock and cliffs of volcanic glass, and the empty, collapsing homes of forgotten monsters all.

The CORE would not be forgotten, though, and would not be silent.

It clanked and groaned and whined, a hulking beast in the throes of death. Pipes burst and fell to become slag in the lava it fed from, releasing screaming vents of steam to join the howls of pain and hunger staining the arid, dry winds of Hotland.

Within it grew a danger none knew but all should fear, and grew deadlier each and every day…

Yet through the meandering and endless hallways crawled the last vestige of beauty that remained in the Underground, unheeding of the danger posed him and quite content to remain. Radiation had no effect on him, after all… he had nothing to fear from corruption or disfigurement.

He was barely alive to begin with.

“Aaaaaaaand now it’s time… for the Mettaton Show! With your host and role model, Mettaton!”

And eerie wailing and a flashing of deep magenta filled the hallways, the crackle of static and the canned sound of recorded applause rising above the clanking and settling of the enormous machine; a scrambling of claws against latticed steel followed a moment later, and from the growing darkness of one of the halls, lined with destroyed panelling and live, sparking wires, a haggard, wide eyed monster skittered, a matted wad of blood and bone remaining behind where an ear used to be and scarred maw gaping for breath.

The monster, bandaged tail whipping about his heels as he loped frantically away from the hall he had just emerged from, skidded into a turn at a whim, slamming into a wall and raising a cacophony of noise, and in his wake, in no obvious rush but in clear pursuit, trundled what appeared, for all intents and purposes, to be a calculator riding a unicycle, flashing bright lights across the walls and floor and domed ceilings of the halls it passed.

A broad, stark smear of blood covered its front and dripped to the metal floor behind it, utterly unheeded.

The static and applause seemed to be coming from the robot, finally ceasing only when the monster that was almost assuredly attempting to escape it came into view (view? It had no eyes, to all appearances, only bearing a shattered display screen, on which blinked nonsensical LEDs, and several just as clearly broken dials, one missing entirely and the rest cockeyed), at which point the calculator raised the single, cartoonish, gangling arm dragging at its side on the ground, bearing what looked like a microphone, severed from a dangling cord.

“Welcome to tonight’s show, our seven wonderful viewers! We bring our first news report to you live, straight from the center of Waterfall, where an impromptu parade has started, celebrating the marriage of our princess and the judge of souls! What a day for monsterkind! Carol, I understand you’re overlooking the scene?” it exclaimed in a carrying, animated voice that filled the hallway, turning on its single wheel so quickly it frightened the staring, panting monster into motion again, nearly falling in his further attempts to flee.

The robot followed without hesitation, the details of its news report cracking and whining like a radio being tuned to a dead station; fell whispers murmured unknown secrets beneath the static, hideous laughter echoing off the damaged walls, before it seemed to find a new channel to focus on, the bombastic, bright tone of the announcer returning as seamlessly as though it had never stopped speaking.

“-r our next segment, we're bringing on a monster with a delightful little invention; a portable blender! You may ask why it needed to be invented. You may ask what you would even need it for. We've got the answers, folks! Stay tuned!” the robot crowed, steadily keeping pace with the panicked monster it pursued, never once wavering in it’s quest.

Its announcements and dialogue certainly made no sense, and seemed to have no context. Had it been a wall speaker in another life?

The monster had no such queries, irises dilated with fear and maw wide as he gasped for air in the close, poisoned halls, and hurriedly strained to shove what looked like an ancient wooden barricade, made of fiberboard and an old display board (the board bore a tattered poster, once brightly colored and resplendent, announcing the robot behind him to be Mettaton and that he would be starring in his own movie in seven different roles) into the robot’s path, blocking off almost all of the hallway in the process.

The monster slumped against the wall he stood beside in utter relief, finally, _finally_ hearing the damned wheel squeal to a stop just out of sight. Mettaton didn’t seem sure of what to do, in the face of the sudden blockade, and sat motionless in the darkness, a slow, steady display of dots making their way across his cracked display and his news report continuing almost unimpeded.

“Weather in New Home is gonna be great today darlings! Same as ever, since nothing really changes! But if that's not your style, and you're feeling adventurous, head on out to Waterfall, catch some waves and take a dip in their exotic waters, or even take the lift up to the Arboretum! There's always fun to be had out in the snowfields! Back to you, Frank!”

The monster, with a twisted grin on his panting mouth, raised a shaking fist into the air, victory and nerves and bloodloss and quickly petering energy leaving him in a state of near shock. He’d escaped. He’d escaped? That was supposed to be impossible, no one got around Mettaton anymore...

“Can’t get me now, can you, you crazy asshole?! Ha! I beat you!” the monster scorned, slipping on a slight lisp in his speech as he pushed away from the wall and, in an afterthought, spat at the back of the barricade, but his mocking smile slipped from his face when a sound, an impossible sound, tore the air apart with a shriek and the rumbling, roaring sound of tearing metal.

The barricade shook in place, shuddering on its supports, and from it’s middle chewed a set of razor sharp, rotating teeth, stained red with old blood and the murderous glow of the shattered screen behind the splintering wood. Raucous laughter, insane and disjointed, rang out over the tearing of wood and the rumble of machinery, and through the hole the chainsaw was quickly making, the crimson light of Mettaton’s screen peered, every single working panel now lit.

“Now, it’s time to play: Flip! That! Switch! You’ve got 90 seconds to flip as many switches as you can! What do they do? That’s for me to know and for you to find out, beautiful!” the robotic fiend cried, his single arm cleaving at the barricade with practiced, unceasing ease, and the monster, trembling and weeping jet black tears, scrambled backwards, away from his only defense.

Why hadn’t he kept running? Why had he just  _ stood there _ ?!

“STAY AWAY FROM ME! GET AWAY, LEAVE ME ALONE!” he screamed hysterically, stumbling into walls and fallen weapons, through the dust of monsters long fallen and the remains of a war that had been lost ages ago (a barbed, cruel iron hook sank into his heel, carving into his flesh with determined hatred, but he couldn’t stop to yank it free, if he stopped it would be over, he’d be through-) and not far enough behind, he heard the barricade fall, and the turning of that hellish wheel, faster and faster and faster.

The tone of Mettaton’s broadcast seemed to have changed, though, along with his demeanor, far more solemn and grave.

“Monsters of the Underground, I urge you to remain calm. Stay indoors when you can, remember the strength of your souls, and report any sightings of the creature to your Royal Guardsmen. Together, we will make it through these trying times,” he uttered encouragingly, even as he raised the still spinning chainsaw in hand as his pursuit sped, gaining ground on the weeping, limping monster.

Everything was red, the walls, the floors, the edges of the monster’s vision; he could barely think straight, could hardly think of anything at all besides the gain of the demonic machine behind him and the hope of his escape dwindling the further he lost himself in the maze that was the CORE.

Why had he come here at all? New Home had been fine, it’d been fucking _dandy_ in comparison to this-

That’s when he spotted it. The spiked cudgel, lodged in a pile of dust in the middle of an intersection of hallways.

If.... if he could get it… if he could surprise the robot and knock him off his guard…

Mettaton clearly didn’t intend to give him much time to decide, rolling closer and closer every passing second, and so the desperate monster made a grab for the cudgel, dragging it’s almost too great weight around the nearest corner and hoisting it onto his scrawny shoulder and lying in wait, hoping against hope that this would be the end of it. 

If he could knock the robot off it’s wheel, there’d be no recovery from that. He could at last escape this hellish nightmare of moving rooms and giggling walls and impossible heat and murderous robots.

The chattering was growing closer.

This was it.

“Despite wishes for our longtime friend and ally's return, no one has heard from or seen the princess since her abrupt departure nearly two weeks ago. We hold onto the hope that she will come back soon, and f-” Mettaton relayed apathetically, speeding around the corner with such speed that the monster nearly missed his chance, but swing he did, all his momentum behind the blow, and with a monumental rattle, a terrific crunch, and a terrible, bloodcurdling screeching, the robot flew across the hallway, rebounded off the far wall, and fell to the ground in a pile, his single arm, only held on by a scrap of silicone and a few wires, departing his body with a sickening snap.

The chainsaw finally quieted, laying beside its master on the floor, and an astounded, nearly complete silence fell, interrupted only by the burble and creak of the CORE itself.

The monster could hardly believe it. He stared at the shuddering, steaming, and smoking scrap heap before him incredulously, beyond himself with surprise and stunned victory, before letting out a loud whoop, releasing the far too heavy weapon, and leaping across the walkway to kick the edge of his fallen enemy, delirious in his success.

“Ha! Got you! Ha ha! I… I-I…” he began to gloat, but stuttered to a stop when something, _someone_, grasped his injured ankle, looking down, with dawning horror, on the sparking, ephemeral, _clawed_ hand ensnaring him.

It was coming from Mettaton’s fallen form, and was accompanied by  _ something else _ , something that was slowly unfolding itself from the collapsed robot’s back.

It lacked what could be called a body, composed of seemingly levitating parts of shattered machinery, dismembered and lit with the same maniacal magic that had pulsed from the robot’s screen; the face of its head was frozen in horror, only more terrible when the mouth began to move, defying its own decapitation.

“Rioting continues on the streets of the capital as week seven of the viral outbreak begins and no sign of an end has emerged. The attempted quarantine of infected monsters within New Home failed well into the fifth week, bringing on an upsurge of violence and mistrust between citizens and the Royal Guard, and the rate of infection among common monsters has since skyrocketed. Despite hostilities, attempts to quell the surge are still underway. If you or your loved ones find themselves suffering any of the symptoms listed on screen, please-” it droned, the static that had before interspersed its silences breaking all throughout its fervent report, and the grasp that the destroyed robot, the horrifying, disjointed creation, had on the monster’s ankle tightened abruptly, snapping his leg at the foot.

His scream of agony did nothing to halt the fiend’s approach, dragging the fallen box that had contained it across the floor towards him; his fall to the ground, unable to bear his weight any longer, only aided Mettaton’s final goal, his unending Hunger, dripping from the air in strings of purplish, tainted acid.

“ No, no, please stop! I just wanted to get through,  _ please _ -”

The monster’s pleas went unheard, and disappeared entirely beneath a horrid, mechanical whirring, an earthly, staticky screech, and a viciously quick gush of verbiage, several reports rolling into one in the cacophony.

“So doctor, what you're saying is... there iii-i-is no0oooo c-c-cureeeeeeeeeee-”

“The upper sec-sec-sector has fallennnnnnn. The fires arreee spreading smoo00oooke across the lower areas of New Hoooooome and Hotlandddddd-d-d-d. Graphic displays o-o-of violence and cannibalissssssssm have been record-ed-ed-ed on the streeeeeeeets. Viewer dissssssssssssss-”

“Burgerpants, d-d-d-darling... you'll g-g-geeee33333t yo0000urs-”

The monster, weeping openly and attempting to drag himself away despite the seemingly unbreakable grasp the ghostly being had on him, latched on to the only part of the spew of information he had heard properly, choking on his words and an ugly deluge of black tar that burst from between his lips in his desperation.

“ I’m not him! I’m not him, it wasn’t me! Spare me!  _ Mercy _ !” he begged, kicking at the bulk of twisted metal and dangling, dead wires slowly descending on him, but the robot, or whatever it was that lived inside it, seemed uncaring and, indeed, only perked up further, the pantomime of a face the being bore spreading into an uncanny, sinister smile.

“Beauties and gentlebeauties! On this week's cooking hour, we'll be ffeeee3333eding that HuuuUUUngEr and learning the proper way to _s_trip flesh from a living monster! Please welcome our special guest, Mister Whimsalot! _He'll be our main course,_” he declared proudly as, with a single, final screech of metal against metal, the beast within dragged itself close enough to overwhelm the monster entirely, snatching at his arms and legs and face with more hands than the remains of the robot possessed, more of the same clawed, nearly invisible fingers scratching and tearing at his furred flesh.

The monster struggled mightily, even as he felt his arm separate from his torso, the same arm that the robot had lost in his fall… even as his eyes ruptured and bled down his face in a gush of gore and corrupted magic…

Even as he felt his belly open and spill, steaming and raw, across the laticed floor.

Above it all, the screech of the machine ruled, the regurgitation of the robot’s news show never ceasing.

“Thank you for tuning in, and remember, my lovelies! It's what's inside that really counts! And by that, I mean the meat that you're made of,” he declared, at the same moment as he tore the other arm from his prey’s body, and the absolute terror, the pain and horror of his fate, spilt at last from the monster’s blood and bile and corruption soaked lips.

“ _ ** DON’T EAT ME!!! ** _ ”  he screamed brokenly, sobbing and lost to despair and agony, but what remained of Mettaton tore his jaw from his face entirely the very next second, silencing him at long last and sentencing him to the long, torturous process of consumption that would soon follow. The monster’s facile tongue lolled down the length of his throat, wagging helplessly on the gurgling breath of what could have been either a moan or a scream, and Mettaton, for the first time seeming aware of what was before him, let out a staticky, almost amused laugh.

“Goo00000dni1111ght, daaa4rlinnng,” he crooned, yawning, double jawed mouth stretching into a hideous smile, and buried his shattered face in his meal’s gaping stomach.

* * *


	14. Maddening Music

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For whom the music plays.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Check out the Axetale blog on Tumblr for more content!
> 
> https://ataleofaxes.tumblr.com/

* * *

Napstablook

* * *

The ruins of Old Home had been empty of all but the smallest, most terrified monsters for far longer than the Hunger had existed. It was a place of refuge for the weak and abused, the misunderstood and the abandoned. It had stood the test of time, bearing the long history of monsterkind from beyond even the ancient war that had imprisoned them, and bore testament to a proud heritage forgotten in a time of hatred and fear.

The caretaker of the ruins had been likewise benevolent and protective, keeping watch over the many echoing halls and caverns, the empty homes and the forgotten palace where she had once reigned with a crown of gold. The little monsters had nothing to fear while she walked the tunnels, a merry song of hope and joy bouncing off the stone walls for all to share.

A different song haunted the ruins now, and brought nothing but fear into every soul that witnessed it.

The caretaker had been gone for more than thirty years, returned to a palace and a people that needed her far more. The doors that had once stood tall, defending against the frigid winds and creeping ice of the arboretum, now lay in a shambles in the entrance to the echoing, lost kingdom. The dust and blood of monsters fleeing the madness in the air covered  _ everything _ , every floor and surface and statue and wall, and any monster that remained alive clung to the shadows desperately, starving into husks of what they once were but living in terror of ever being found.

A beast that never slept roamed the halls now, and to be found was to meet your end.

It had never been Napstablook’s design, of course, to be regarded with the terror that they were. It was the last thing they had ever wanted… and they had done everything they could to prevent it.

The Ruins were an old, old friend to them, a refuge the same as it was to lesser monsters. They had come there many times, in those old, long lost days before the end of the world, to be alone, away from the reminder of their lost family, to wander the Ruins and listen to the music that they had designed with their favorite cousin and reminisce and wish, wish silently for a reunion, if only for a single day.

They would never impose on him, though. He was so bright and so popular and so  _ happy _ , a shining star for the entire Underground. Mettaton had everything he wanted now… they could cheer him on from the background, if that’s what he really desired.

It didn’t bother them. Not really.

They had been reunited through the efforts of the human, though, the same human that had been so kind and patient with them; they had had happy years, together with Mettaton and the crowds that _loved_ their music (they had never understood why). They’d… never been a particularly happy monster; they knew just how morose they appeared. But those years brought them as close to happiness as they’d ever been.

It hadn’t been meant to last. One day, a great disturbance broke the magic of the Underground, and turned monster souls from love to unending hunger. That hunger tried to visit Napstablook too, in their home as they watched the news with worry, but they neglected answering the door so long, too nervous to even peek through the curtains to see who it was, that it left in impatience.

They stayed in their home, too, as the days grew longer and the violence grew; the broadcasts became more and more terrifying, the danger Mettaton put himself in to air the events in the Underground shaking them to their pale soul… until the electricity failed at long last, the plant in the swamps overloading and halting entirely, and the news stopped coming.

Mettaton never returned. No matter how long they waited, how many times they called his phone (he always answered… he’d never ignored them before)... he never came back, and when the waters of the swamp, sickly and murky with dust, began to crawl towards their homes and the farm, Napstablook fled, to the only place that could comfort them now, or offer any kind of resistance to the hunger that knocked at their door daily.

The Ruins.

The Underground he passed through on the way there, the furthest away they could get from the greatest point of corruption, was a wreckage. Monsters prowled the caverns in search of any food that they could find, including but not limited to each other, homes were in flames, shops boarded up and abandoned… the air felt thick and choking, as though weighted down with something that simply could not be seen.

The break of the world had changed them all, taken everything from them… and it would come for Napstablook too, in time. They couldn’t resist it forever, try as they might, run as they did. It would warp them the same as it did with all else, twisting their mind and their form irreparably… force their hand in the satiation of the hunger that never ended.

All they had of their former life, in the dark places of the world, was the last song they and Mettaton had composed together. It stayed their mind, soothed their soul, and became their mantra, a haunting, neverending hum that echoed from the dust-stained walls and filled the empty caverns and sent smaller monsters scurrying away, to do their best to hide.

Perhaps it was a mercy, a warning, an attempt to keep Napstablook away from them, to spare them an unjust end. 

They only wished the little monsters were better at hiding.

* * *


	15. Humanity's Smallness

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The mountain stands above all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Check out the Axetale blog, for interactions, fanart, questions, and other stuff:
> 
> https://ataleofaxes.tumblr.com/

* * *

Once upon a time, there was a great mountain.

The mountain was a wonder, cutting the wide berth of the sky in twain and dominating the landscape with majesty and power. Those that lived in its shadow considered themselves blessed, by the bounty of food and game that grew and thrived so well upon its slopes; they feared not the fire that poured from its peak on dire occasion, its height so great that the molten rock never reached their villages.

The lake that gathered the rain and glacial runoff on the mountain’s south side provided fish and fresh water; the vast forest surrounding its feet and climbing its side supplied wood and endless other bounty. The villages gathered at its base never feared attack, protected by the mountain’s reaching embrace and its curving paths and its many, many caves.

They called the mountain mother, and worshiped her as she deserved, both man and monster.

Monsterkind was the first to explore her caverns, running deep and hallowed through her insides; they carved from the stone a city indomitable, unmoved by time and weathering, and put there to rest the ashes of their heroes, human and monster alike, to be immortalized in her grand halls, protected by her unflinching facade. They painted the walls with their proud history, their friendship with humans and their love of the stars, and blessed every stone they touched with the magic of their being.

War came to the people of the world. Jealousy, hatred, and misunderstanding divided men and monsters, and unfathomable numbers perished, lost to blind anger and the call of battle and the words of those that had started it all. Few remained that recalled what had kindled the fire that burned the land to cinders… but in its wake, the monsters lay defeated and sentenced to eternal imprisonment within the mountain they had loved so dearly, their children sacrificed for the magic of their souls in the creation of a cruel, immovable barrier to keep them within.

The mountain was never the same, after the monsters vanished beneath it. The magic was gone from the world, sealed within with no chance to escape, and the lands about her feet suffered greatly. The soil dried, the trees thinned and the glacier began to melt, seeping with hidden poisons. The flames of her eruptions wreaked unholy damage to all that dared settle too close, and the animals, once peaceful, became rabid and violent.

Humanity forgot the monsters, as the world turned and grew darker with each passing day, and grew instead to hate themselves, each other and the world they lived in and the mountain that had once given so much so freely, now a pallid, hateful mark on the horizon.

Man cursed its name, mother and giver no longer, and turned away, never to return.

Legends began to come into being. Legends that told of brave adventurers attempting to scale the mountain, to delve into its caverns seeking riches… to solve the mystery of its broken majesty. They never returned, those brave souls, and many said it was because of the monstrous people that dwelled within it, shadowy beings of hatred and fire and malice towards mankind.

Demons that had settled within it and driven humanity away, to keep its bounty for themselves.

When a large hunting party disappeared without a trace, the government of the city miles away from the closest hill declared it a hazard and fenced it off, putting out of service the nearby refuse dump and forbidding its citizens to approach it, lest more lives be lost to collapsed mines or hungering animals or harsh climes, whatever it was that caused so many to vanish without a trace.

They couldn’t know the truth, had put the knowledge away long ago, in their ignorance and anger and mistrust. They couldn’t know that every human that disappeared from the face of the mountain found their way within to where monsterkind dwelt, alive despite the centuries that had passed and confined them within the unmoving, unforgiving stone.

Many perished, the fall into the caverns fatal to all but the youngest, the children that still held magic in their hearts and hope for the world about them.

They were not better off for their survival, though. 

Monsterkind held hatred in their souls as well, the war and their slain children and the nightmare of their banishment heavy on their minds, and knew of only one way to escape their eternal prison… and that it would cost the innocent the most.

The great mountain, once so beloved, had become cursed with the spilled blood of those that deserved life, with the hatred for one another that soured the earth and staled the air, and should nothing change, should hearts and souls never be moved to compassion and forgiveness, would remain so.

Change would come, though.

Change spread its wings with the falling of another child into the deep and the dark, into the world of monsters and shadows and broken trust. The child was a being of mercy and friendship, hope and benevolence, and with her unending determination, her sacrifice and her pure love, she changed the heart of every monster beneath the mountain, giving them hope for the first time in a millenia.

She spoke to them of freedom, of a way to end their long imprisonment, and they believed her.

It was not meant to be, though. There was one beneath the mountain that no longer possessed a soul to move, a selfish being twisted by greed and loneliness and anger, that desired more than freedom, that desired the power that none should ever possess, and destroyed what little hope the monsters now had, corrupting the world itself even further with his very existence.

The selfish creature broke reality to achieve his designs, and broke the rest of the monsters too.

The mountain, without, hadn’t changed at all. But within, there now lived and breathed a true curse, a disease that would end every life on the surface of the earth should it be given the chance, and there was now only one that could combat it.

The merciful human’s daughter, set on a path by fate far greater than she could ever know, to the mother mountain, wondrous and terrible.

* * *


	16. Too Many Eyes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Can you hear me?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's me...
> 
> your worst nightmare.
> 
> The Axetale blog, for interactions, lore, fanart, and other stuff:
> 
> https://www.tumblr.com/blog/ataleofaxes

* * *

Flowey

* * *

There exist in this world things beyond comprehension. 

This is a statement of fact, for objects and creatures and concepts that can have no definition, purely by their own design. Things too dark to see, even in brightest day. Too complex to know, even with the greatest of minds. Too rotten to ever cure, with all the medicines in science.

They obey only their own basest nature, as a starving animal attacking without provocation, an insect invading another’s body to raise its young… darkness falling in lieu of day. They cannot be called evil, though the mind is given to attempt to name them, to put at ease the fear it cannot understand but knows to be true. 

It could be argued that the creation of what now dwelled in the darkness of its own mind had been evil, that what brought rise to the desecration and destruction of the world of monsters had been hardness of heart and cruelty unbound. Loneliness and fear can turn a heart to stone, after all… bring about acts both unthinking and malicious.

Perhaps it would even be right, to say Flowey had been evil, to desire the conquest and power that he did, to whatever end.

But the creature that remains, all that is left of his foolish lust for control, is not evil. The fiend with a thousand eyes is naught more than another beast clawing for existence in the muck and grime of a world once good and loving and whole. He is a wreckage, devoid of much of the power he once coveted so dearly, and a horror to look upon, all majesty he might have born molded and decayed.

He had hoped to become a god. And with the power of the souls he had stolen, he had ascended… but into an amalgamation of what his twisted desires had made him into, a mind of metal, unfeeling and cold, a pile of vegetation both prickly and vile, an abomination that saw all but learned nothing from it.

As he slowly rotted in the prison of his own making, his form only twisted further. His hunger was unending, and his savagery a monstrosity to behold. Yet the more victims he took, the hungrier he became, and the more he was polluted, the stench of bloated corpses and fetid meat enshrouding his gargantuan, wilting, rusted facade. His mind was just as spoiled as his body, both a temple to his own vile glory and a black hole of self-hatred, perpetuated by both of the people he had once been.

The flower within him screamed unending for vengeance, for the death of the human that took his power in the first place but had escaped him… for the pain of his existence to end at last. The prince cowered and wailed for his mother, for his best friend and for someone, _anyone_ to save him.

All he had wanted was to feel. And now, all he wanted was to never feel again.

His very existence was a crime, an unholy being that persisted despite all reason. His hunger was unfathomable, and defied every attempt to assuage it. His mind was a trap of the worst kind, all knowledge but pain and hatred and starvation and _fear_ escaping it.

He craved the end as fiercely as he clung to life. He hated his existence as ardently as he loved it.

He called for help, in the desperate misery that he had created himself…

And no one came.

hE rEAllY WaS An iDIot.

* * *


	17. Too Many Teeth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He always did have a big smile.
> 
> Maybe too big, now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is gonna be the last of the Axetober shorts, and from now on, any shorts I do for this comp will be freeform. Sorry about that guys, I just lost interest in the formatting of it.
> 
> The Axetale blog, for fanart, reactions, questions, and more:
> 
> https://ataleofaxes.tumblr.com/

* * *

Greater Dog

* * *

There's nothing like staring into a mouth bristling with teeth to ruin your day.

It'd been a miscalculation on her part. An error in judgment, too much curiosity. Sans had always warned her, don't follow any sort of trail back into the woods, food, gold, or otherwise. Papyrus had told her not to follow the whimpering cries or the path of blood droplets, as well, oddly sober and hesitant, at the edge of the treeline.

Dad wasn't going to forgive her for leaving him alone there, or for getting herself into this mess. She knew, if she survived this (looking less likely by the moment), she'd get the talking to of a lifetime. She could only be grateful he wasn't the same kind of guardian as gramma had been...

Though a belt whealed backside was the least of her worries now.

The dog monster before her towered over where she had fallen into the snow, easily the size of a bear. His once white coat was matted with twigs, leaves, clumps of ice, and gore, the rusted remnants of armor clamped tight around bulging limbs and a torso as thick as the ancient tree trunks surrounding them. His eyes were glowing with madness and hunger, blood red and pinned to where she lay, foot caught in the bear trap... but his maw was what truly held her attention.

She had never seen so many teeth in one mouth. It wasn't able to contain them all, spilling over to litter his drooling, blood saturated jaw; some had broken off, and were entwined in the thick fur on his neck. It was a horrifying sight, made no less terrible by the haggard, panting growls the beast was rumbling with, and it was all Aliza could do not to let out a bloodcurdling scream when he took a step closer, struggling at the end of the trap's chain.

The pain of the steel biting into her leg was nothing to what the animal would inflict on her. She had to get away, she had to do _something_, but she couldn't call out for help and make this worse.

Another monster could hear her, and come to see what the commotion was.

Aliza jerked again at the chain holding her in place, the stake frozen into the ground and the jaws of the trap too rusted to part with her own paltry strength; she tried again to call to her unstable, untrained magic, to teleport away, to start a fire, anything. Nothing came.

She begged, as the beast fell to all fours and charged, for some sort of miracle.

And when the axe sliced through the chain as though it were butter, sending her sprawling into the slush, she knew it had been answered.

Sans didn't so much as glance at her, though his skeletal hand was tight in the hood of her sweatshirt, dragging her up from the ground and behind where he stood, stance wide and magic flared. His attention was fixed on the now halted monster, his own teeth bared and chest rumbling with a territorial growl.

His hand was more gentle, in pushing her back, away from what was now to be a battleground, but still he had no attention to spare her.

This would be no quick, easy fight against a Snowdrake, an ambush on a monster trapped in one of his “puzzles”. This was Greater Dog, trained in combat and as fast as he was ferocious. The beast had been encroaching on his territory for months, leaving warnings and challenges in the trees to show his intent, and now he had finally gone too far.

No one would take Aliza from him. Not even an old friend.

“_**mine**_,” he snarled savagely, and rushed forward to meet the beast in combat.

* * *


	18. From the Heart

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Never too late for a new beginning <3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Something I had posted to the Tumblr but never really had a place for before, written for my girl's b-day~
> 
> The Axetale blog, for interactions, questions, fanart and more:
> 
> https://ataleofaxes.tumblr.com/

* * *

“What is all this?”

For the first time Aliza had ever seen in her acquaintance with the skeleton monster, Sans jumped in surprise, tangling his hands in the colorful paper streamers he had been hanging on the wall and nearly ripping the rest of them down in the process.

She’d never managed to sneak up on the always alert monster before… he must have been really concentrating. She’d have to be more careful; he didn’t usually take kindly to things putting him off his guard.

Understandably so. This wasn’t… really the best sort of place to let things come up on you unawares, even in your own house.

Laughingly, the girl shook her head and approached the now obviously grumpy skeleton, reaching out to help him detangle the streamers from his hands (he’d managed to get a wad of tape lodged between his metacarpals, that was gonna be a nightmare), and he looked away sheepishly, face half hidden in the shadow of his hood but gaze, remarkably, completely even and subdued, even given her quiet approach and his shock at her sudden arrival.

She’d expected him to lose it a bit. He looked pretty calm, though, just huffing under his breath and holding his hands out to let her assist him with an embarrassed, crooked grin playing about the stained bone of his mouth.

“you weren’t supposed to come back for a bit. this was supposed to be a surprise…” he grumbled half-heartedly, looking around the room with a slightly disappointed air with the comforting blue glow of his more stable magic lighting his whole, unshattered socket, and Aliza, hands full of the balled up paper ribbons, righted herself to join him in his inspection, and let out a tiny gasp.

She’d only been able to see one of the walls from the hallway that lead in from the backyard, unaware of the state of the rest of the room, and found it draped with far more streamers, along with several paper signs declaring ‘HAPPY BIRTHDAY’ in large, garish, polka dotted letters. On the table in front of the couch were some party favors, some paper hats and a small pile of wrapped boxes, as well as a little cake, topped with a single, unlit candle. 

She had no idea how he’d managed a cake… where had he found the ingredients? He must have sacrificed a lot to make it…

“Dad… it’s…” she whispered, a scattering of tears gathering on her lashes and her soul pounding against her ribs in heartfelt glee, while, beside her, Sans let out a tiny sigh, rubbing his now tape free hand along the back of his neck abashedly.

“i know it’s not much. i just wanted to do something for you… mark the occasion. it’s our first with you here, and your mother told me sixteen was a big year for humans…” he explained quietly, kicking the heel of his sneaker against the baseboard of the wall behind him, but Aliza let him get no further, turning on her heel, dropping her ball of tape and streamers to the floor, and tackle hugging him around the neck.

His reaction was less subdued this time, his hands clawing in the back of her hoodie and his entire body tensing with practiced instinct, and the girl sprung away the next moment, flushed with both embarrassment and joy at once.

“Oh gosh I’m sorry daddy, but it’s amazing. Aaaah, thank you so much!” she squealed, taking his clenched hands in hers and jumping on the spot. His reactive snarl melted at the sight, shoulders unlocking and grip on his own palms loosening, but the striking flare of his kindled and corrupted justice remained behind, as well as a look of frustrated impatience.

“aliza-” he began to reprimand, gruff and disgruntled at the forced change in his mood, and Aliza settled and looked down at her toes, biting at her lower lip in shame.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I know I’m supposed to warn you before I do that, but I just… I can’t believe you remembered,” she excused, twisting the toe of one slightly wet sneaker into the carpet, and the remainder of the skeletal monster’s choler dissipated into nothing, his grasp in hers shifting to hold her hands more comfortably. The gold of his wakened magic faded with an audible fizzle, and his smile, quizzical and small, returned.

“…of course i remembered. how could i forget?” he queried softly, squeezing her fingers indicatively to draw her attention back to him, and she looked back at him from under her lashes with a shrug and a half smile, unphased and nonchalant.

“Everyone else always did,” she said simply, and the magnitude of her lack of expectations hit Sans like a freight train, knocking his smile from his face and tightening his grasp on her hands.

No one had ever cared enough for her to even remember her birthday…

“…precious, i’m so sorry. if i could’ve-” he began, his soul sinking in his chest with sorrow and regret (if he could have been there… if he’d known she existed in his world, if he could have reached her, he’d have loved her the way she deserved, her entire life; she’d have never been forgotten, never felt alone or unloved a single moment… never come to expect it), but Aliza interrupted him with a quiet chuckle and a shake of her head, lifting her head and sending him a stronger smile this time.

“Dad, it’s not a big deal. I forget it all the time too. I… I forgot it was today, in fact,” she remarked laughingly, seemingly unaffected by what any normal person would be devastated by (long practice, he assumed), but her dismissal did nothing to soothe him, only depressing him further, and he used her hold on his hands to pull her against his chest, enfolding her in a reciprocated hug and smoothing her hair under his hand.

She’d never feel forgotten again. He’d see to that, no matter what.

“we’ll make sure it’s something for you to remember from now on, baby girl,” he promised her unflinchingly, leaning his skull against the top of her head and swaying with her on the spot fondly, and Aliza softened into the embrace for a long, long moment, clinging to the skeletal monster and burying her face in his chest.

He could feel her shoulders shaking, knew all too well the signs of her taking a moment to shed a few tears, and let her have them, smiling softly and just… being there for her. It’s what she really needed, not advice or soothing words. 

He could more than do that.

Only the clock ticking away on the wall heralded the passing of time, that and the knocking about of pans and crockery coming from the kitchen (Papyrus had gone in to make their dinner almost an hour ago; he’d be done soon, and they could have their little party), but it wasn’t long before Aliza, with a quiet sniffle and a watery smile, pulled back from their embrace and slid one hand into her hoodie’s pocket, feeling around for something inside.

“Well, um. Daddy. That kind of reminds me… I was… I was actually out back making something. A present. For you,” she stammered, flushing again and wiping at her wet cheeks with her shoulder, and Sans, huffing out a snicker and bending to pick up the ball of wadded up streamer that had fallen to the floor, sat himself on the edge of the couch idly, crossing his ankles and raising a single bony brow in amusement.

“heh… you really don’t know much about birthdays, do ya. that’s my line,” he teased, setting the paper ball aside on the edge of the crowded coffee table, but Aliza didn’t laugh along, fidgeting what she had pulled from her pocket between her fingers and looking… almost embarrassed?

“I just… wanted to show you I was learning something useful. Since my magic is still… not great. So. Here,” she blurted out, thrusting the small object in her hands at him and turning her head away as though she couldn’t stand to look at it a moment longer, and Sans, bemused and exasperated, took it from her and set in his own larger palm, sending the excitable girl a quelling look.

“you don’t have to do that, honey, magic is hard to…” he excused, more than pleased with her progress himself (she didn’t explode into random balls of fire anymore, and hadn’t accidentally teleported anywhere in a month. She was doing fine), but fell into silence as he glanced down to the object sitting in his hand, light and small and, apparently, carved from wood. “huh. a heart?”

A lopsided, slightly splintery heart at that, but he recognized the shape and the skill she was referring to; carving wood was something he’d picked up after the Hunger had set in, a past time that kept his hands from shaking and his mind from shattering too often, and there was certainly no shortage of it around these parts. He’d started teaching her how to do it too, something to help her cope with the urges that he could see growing in her day after day.

It was better than pulling her hair out or chewing on her own fingers like she had started to.

She flushed darker at his question, hiding behind her hair but reaching out, with slightly tremulous fingers, to turn the heart over in his hand, until it rested upside down in his palm.

“…A soul. Since yours is so hurt. Made with love and all, the good kind. Maybe… it’ll get you through. Until we can get out,” she muttered, glancing at him from the corner of her eye to see his reaction, but he had none to give.

All he could do was stare at her, his blood stained phalanges closing over the carved piece of wood that he knew he would carry with him everywhere, every day, for the rest of the life that he had left, and wonder what he had done, what the stars had seen in him, to grant him someone like her.

Nothing, as far as he was concerned… but it must have been something. Some reason why a light so bright and pure as she had been brought to him, here in the hell he had made with his own hands.

His silence panicked her. She started to stutter, her arms folding around herself protectively and her shoulders lowering and her gaze, again, filling with tears that she hated, that she hated so much that it made her entire body shake.

“I-I… I know it’s silly, and childish, I just thought-” she stammered, wanting to run, run back to her room and hide so she wouldn’t have to hear how stupid he thought it was (what had she been thinking, why would he like that, it was so dumb), but he stopped her with a snort and a fierce, tight hug the moment he regained his feet, sliding the heart (soul… his new soul) into the pocket of his shorts as he reached for her.

“it’s beautiful, aliza. thank you. it’s… it means more than you realize,” he whispered, a tear of his own sliding down the cracked bone of his skull as he cradled her close, and Aliza, stiff for a single moment, hugged him back just as fiercely, again burying her face in his chest and clenching her fingers into the familiar warmth of his jacket.

“I… I love you, dad,” she murmured into his t-shirt, stained with the old evidence of his sins, sins that couldn’t be washed away no matter how hard he tried, and he turned his face into her hair, smiling brokenly and feeling, deep inside himself, the cracks that counted down the rest of his days heal just a little bit.

“love you too, precious. so… so much.”

* * *

**Author's Note:**

> Leave me a comment <3 I already have all the subjects picked, but I'd love to hear from ya~


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